


Day 2: The Crooked Old House

by whatsanapocalae



Series: Inktober 2018 [1]
Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series), Silent Hill PT, Silent Hills - Fandom
Genre: Horror, Inktober, Psychological Horror, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 10:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16172831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsanapocalae/pseuds/whatsanapocalae
Summary: He walked through the house, trying to find a way out, and then there was something different on the radio and he wondered if he was doomed to walk the path of his predecessor.Whenever I skip a day in Inktober, it's just that I wrote an original piece that day instead of fic. You can read the original ones on whatsanwritepocalae.tumblr.com





	Day 2: The Crooked Old House

How many days had he been there? How many days had he been trapped inside of the house, the door not even responding as he tried to unlock it? How many times had he tried to get through the door into the cellar, hoping that it, at least, would take him to a different room. Part of him knew exactly how many days he had been there, but he couldn’t allow himself that answer. The lines he’d written on the walls, in the cellar, with the bit of chalk that never seemed to run out, wasn’t for days. It was for loops. 

He made another line. He stood up, dusting himself off, and made his way to the door. The door that would lead him to the hall, the pictures, the plant, the clock that never seemed to pass 23:59, the piles of bottles, and the table covered in pills. He’d thought to clean it, was certain that he had at one point, but going through the door, into the cellar again, had reset the house, had reset everything. 

He broke the window at one point. That had been a mistake. He hadn’t been there that long but he felt like he was losing his mind, something he now knew he had done, because none of this was possible, when he took the radio, the one that kept telling him about the murder and the numbers. He’d thrown the radio through the window. He had to get out. Her arms were waiting for him though and she had more of them then she should have and the window was full of them, glass ripping through pale rotten flesh as she reached towards him. He’d sprinted down the hall, back through the door, just to repair the window. He hadn’t tried since. 

He could hear it, so much noise, as he passed by the clock. A minute to midnight. No matter how long he stood there, staring at the clock, it never changed. Time wouldn’t pass here. He could hear David, crying from the bathroom. He didn’t know what sex the baby was, he hadn’t even seen the baby as the door was always locked and no matter how much he threw himself against it, it wouldn’t budge. But it was a baby and he’d named it David, just so that he wouldn’t have to keep calling it the baby. It was so loud that it didn’t seem to matter that there was a door in the way. The radio was also going, that same story about that family, the man who had murdered his wife after learning she’d gotten knocked up with her boss, their two children, and then himself.

“Don’t touch that dial now, we’re just getting started.” 

He stopped, his heart pounding. He’d almost gotten used to it, the loop, the never ended cycle. He’d seen Lisa, a few times, and while she terrified him, he knew that he was safe as long as he kept his distance and his eye on her. That voice though, it was new. 

He made his way to the front door, the pills, the old banana pill, the photo of the couple he didn’t know. He didn’t know the people in any of the photos here. He hadn’t known the house at all. He’d only gathered that the woman was Lisa because of the wound in her stomach, matching the description of how the mother had died. 

“You can’t trust the tap water.”

His breathing was short, in his throat, his mouth shut tight. His eyes went around the room. He hadn’t drank anything, nor eaten, since he’d arrived here. He hadn’t needed to. He didn’t need to sleep either, but he had just to pass the time. He hadn’t even seen a sink since he’d arrived. 

The voice was coming from the radio. The news story was continuing, the same one as always, but the voice was coming through on top of it, riding on a cloud of soft static. He leaned in, listening closer. There had to be a reason for the change. Lisa and David were the only ones who ever seemed to change in this place but they were dead and he didn’t think the rules applied to them. 

“204863”

He startled, looking around. A number? There was no context, no meaning, but no, there was, the man on the radio, he’d said that the father had been repeating a string of numbers, like a chant. He stopped his search, for pencil and paper, stilling himself, glad that he’d already forgotten a few of the digits. He didn’t want to be cursed by the numbers as well. He didn’t want whatever had happened to that man to make him kill his family to happen to him. 

He was alone though, there was only one person he could hurt and that was himself. He’d tried that already and all it had left him with was a headache when he next woke up on the floor of the cellar. 

He wondered if the father had been here, if he’d walked down these halls, trapped in this loop, before he’d killed them. He wondered if that was the point of all this. 

“Look behind you”

More by instinct than anything else, he obeyed, half turning to get the best view. 

“I said, look behind you”

The door. That was all there was. A moment of hope, wild and plunging, made him shove his way towards it, yank on the doorknob. 

Nothing, he was still trapped. There had been nothing behind him. There was nothing at all. There was no point to this the redundancy, the life that just cycled, same thing, minute by minute. He wanted out, he needed out. He looked out the peephole. Nothing. He looking through the coat pockets on their stand. Nothing new. He looked up at the second story, where he would never reach no matter how long he was in the house. Nothing. Not even Lisa. 

His hands were fists. His nails would have cut them if he hadn’t torn them all off with his teeth long ago. His eyes were burning, but crying over it would do nothing. Doing anything at all would accomplish nothing. There was no going forward, there was no going back, there wasn’t even the option of giving up. He wanted to give up so badly. 

“204863”

He put his hands over his ears. He didn’t want to hear that number. He didn’t want it to be in him, to mark him, to make him do something terrible. 

He wanted to go home. 

He took a step back, the crackly voice no longer speaking, the usual news story continuing as if it had never been interrupted. 208643? No, that wasn’t it. 208463. That was good though, he didn’t want to remember. 280463. His mind was trying to figure it out though, repeating numbers in his head, trying to keep it. 206483. Numbers were important, patterns were important. 204683. It didn’t matter what he wanted out of it. 

He made his way to the cellar, down the steps that had just a slight creak to them. He had to hope that the next loop would be different, that there would be some clue. He had to get out of here. 

2068432084632038642408632863020863420386420348643204863204863204863204863204863204863204863204863204863204863204863204863204863204863204863204863204863204863204863.

How may lines were on the wall?


End file.
